Can late nights and folk music actually be good for you?
Everyone knows you need to go to life drawing classes to get into art school.
And when you’re 17, all you want to do, is get into art school.
Dad is often sending me things, mostly clips from Woodstock, or sometimes its 70s french babes singing on merry-go-rounds. But today this one I actually clicked the link on and read the whole thing. Because I remember the name, and I remember Angus R Grant. I’d just spent half a year posing as an american teenager at a High School in Denver and in the great lack of things to do in Colorado I’d learnt a few tunes. So my transition from the High School Orchestra, scales and sight reading to joining in on things that could actually cheer up a room was imminent. But I wasn’t free just yet, I still had to pass exams, and build a portfolio.
And when you’re 17, all you want to do is go to art school, and learn to drive.
So the deal was; if I accompanied mum to yoga then she’d drop me off at the life drawing class, if I accompanied dad to the Birnam Tap then he would give me a driving lesson. So every Monday evening, I’d first rid my thoughts of the weekend in quiet acrobatics followed by an hour and half of intently following the contours of very calm, white bodies gracefully settled on paint speckled directors chairs. Then, the fun would begin. How could I sneak out a side door so noone would see which car I nip to? Which really embarassingly loud tune would be blaring from radio Scotland out the car window dare he be on time.
I quickly worked out that the driving lesson was all a ploy to get a ride home after a pint in the pub-he gave this away by assuring me we’d get there faster if he drove (what’s the rush you ask?). Arriving at the Tap, we’d crash in (we’d sometimes park the car first) putting hats and coats and cases on the table by the piano- a scene which happened every week but continually caused great excitement to the clientele. But they hadn’t come for the scampi.
And when you’re 17, all you want to do is go to art school, and learn to drive, and get an SQA qualification in Classical Greek.
Asides from the portfolio I was building, I’d decided biology and maths highers were no use, and it just had to be Greek. So dad would be there, tuning up his fiddle, tuning mine too, leaving it there beside my Greek translations homework just in case I felt like joining in. My repertoire wasn’t too big, but if I recognised a tune I’d give it a go. But those guys were great players, and they were fast! From the calm serene scene in the drawing class we’d been transported to a wild, colourful, sweaty party! Fiddles, the piano, a banjo. Pints flowing, provisional licence praised, at times the fiddles slowed and someone would sing.
So I’d try and get on with my homework, translating Thucydedes, wondering if I should have read Homer in English before attempting in in Greek. When chatting to the pianist who was wondering the same thing I discovered this group weren’t just fantastic players but they knew a thing or two about the Ancients. Luke and Jamie gave me what they had about the Greeks, so I could finish up and get my fiddle out!
But I didn’t know all the tunes, and I’d done all my homework. And In all my 17 year old strength it was getting late, I’m sleepy. so I’ll open the sketchbook with the dodgy white shapes inside and look at the fiddler. He’s the most interesting by far. What’s he wearing? And that hair. He is making the melody, so in a way he is the leader. Does the leader always look the wildest? Where does he find this stuff! It’s the fiddler that excites me. He is the one with the colours. He looks frightening but the sounds are so warm. Its not like my bow hitting the strings all higgeldy piggeldy squeaky, no they are rounded and pleasing. And much, much more interesting to draw.
Its nearing midnight and we’re packing things away. We’ll see you next week, but theres someone started tinkering, and someone else with a bit of gossip. I’ve taken dad’s fiddle out his hands, and put his hat on his head. He’s doing that mock exasperation to tell younger people not to have kids cos they moan and whine and we head to the car. On the way home its Radio Scotland again, a bit too loud so that we can’t really have a conversation and my mind wanders, who is that guy? How does he look so wild and play so well. Is he married? Does he have a house? What is his job? I wonder how many applicants to Duncan of Jordanstone will feature Angus R Grant in their entrance portfolios this year? The name of the artist on the radio is announced and satisfied with the knowledge the volume goes back down and we discuss the darkness over Perthshire.
And now you’re 27, and you’ve forgotten those Mondays, and those who played with you, whose existence puzzled you, who helped you pass exams, and helped you create a portfolio and taught you how to drive.
Link to Angus’ eulogy by James MacIntosh (2016) here
